Glimpses
by FlyersGirl1
Summary: Thought it might be fun to do some one-shots that give us glimpses into the life of Tim Riggins at various points in time. These snapshots are premised on canon through end of Season 3. Much like in my mind, Seasons 4-5 do not exist here.
1. Chapter 1

Summer.

_Tim_. He watches as she folds a sweater. Slowly. Carefully. He's lying across her bed, arms folded behind his head. "It'll probably take you three months, at this rate," he grins. "Think you'll be ready by Thanksgiving?"

She says nothing, narrowing her eyes and wrinkling her nose at him. Tim Riggins knows that look, the one she reserves for him when he teases her, the look that tells him that he's pretty goddamn irresistible, whatever he's saying. Or not saying. He loves that look. He loves this girl.

His smile disappears as she goes back to folding sweaters. He loves this girl. Who's leaving him. For Vanderbilt. He usually puts it out of his head – when he thinks about it, that is. When he thinks about it, he tries not to think about, which sometimes works, but usually makes him think about it more. Which is depressing. So he tries not to think about it.

Like now. Watching her pack for college. He told himself he should not come over tonight to watch her pack for college. Because watching her pack – that's so . . . final, yunno? Like, if you don't watch her pack, she's not really going. But she's going. And he told her to go. And he's glad she's going. Well, he's not glad. He's actually pretty goddamned miserable about it, but he supposes that it's better than the alternative . . . giving up her dreams to follow him to San Antonio State. That would be worse. Right?

He convinced her. And now, as he lays here, on her bed – the bed where they've spent so many nights together – he convinces himself. This is the right thing. The best thing. For her. For him. This is right. . . . Right?

He's leaving first. Actually. Of course, he's not packing first. But he's leaving first. He reports to preseason on August 1. In three days. He's not looking forward to it. People keep asking him if he's excited. People keep telling him that college, football – _college football_ – is a fucking exciting thing to be starting. That he has his whole life ahead of him. And, sometimes, he even thinks it might be true.

But on nights like this, as he watches his life in front of him – this girl he loves – he wonders. How is he supposed to do this without her? The whole college thing – that's her thing. He did it for her. He's doing it for her. How is he supposed to make it there without her?

On a night like this, he can hardly believe that he existed before she came along. Before she fell in love with him. It's not like he doesn't remember life before Lyla Garrity. It's not like he didn't enjoy life before she came along (some might say he enjoyed it too much). But everything's different now. He's different. He's not that guy anymore. He doesn't know how he's supposed to go back to being that guy.

When she closes her suitcase and zips it shut, he sits up and puts a hand on her arm. She looks at him. "What?" she asks. Softly.

He shakes his head. "I don't know." His voice betrays a sadness. He tries to hold it back, but he can't. How is he supposed to do this?

She knows. She sees. He feels her slip her arms around him and pull him close. They don't speak. He closes his eyes and buries his face in her hair.

Finally, she pulls away. "We're going to be okay, you know," she says. He hears the determination in her voice. He wonders if she feels as certain as she sounds.

"I know," he nods.

"We're going to be okay," she repeats.

"We're going to be okay," he says.

We're going to be okay, he thinks. We have to be. I love this girl. That has to be enough.

_Lyla_. When he leaves that night, she cries. She refuses to cry in front of him. If she starts crying, then she can't convince him that he's making the right decision, that they're making the right decision. She wants him to go to San Antonio State. She needs him to go to San Antonio State. And she needs to go to Vanderbilt. She knows this. But knowing that something is right doesn't make it any easier.

So she cries when he leaves. He didn't want to leave. But she needed to cry, so . . . here she is. Alone. She sits on her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, crying. Her suitcase – one of three – is lined up (according to size, largest to smallest) next to her closet. Neatly. Perfectly.

She remembers when life used to be that neat. Perfect. Simple. When she didn't have to worry about making decisions about her future – about whether she was making the right decision about her future – back when she was headed to South Bend with Jason. Jason Street. She wonders what he's doing tonight, what he and Erin and Noah are doing tonight. In New York City.

Lyla Garrity remembers that life. Almost like it was someone else's life. Back when she made decisions about her own life for someone else. And now here she sits, ready to embark on this new life – in Nashville – by herself. For herself. This is a good thing. She knows that this is a good thing. She knows that this is the right decision – that she needs this – needs to go off and discover the world.

But part of her – a pretty damn big part of her – wants to hold onto the life she has now. Right now. Tim Riggins has a tight grip on that part of her. She can't quite pinpoint when it happened, how it happened, why it happened, but it's there. In front of her. There was a point in time where she almost couldn't conceive of leaving him. Almost. But Tim was there, pushing her to go. That he is her biggest supporter makes this even harder for her.

They're not breaking up. She's said this to herself a thousand times over the last two months. They're not breaking up. But with Tim in San Antonio and Lyla in Nashville . . . she wonders. How's that supposed to work? In reality. Not in some teenager's fantasy world where you can hold onto your past and reach for your future all at the same time.

Tim is a football player. Lyla knows what goes along with that. Lyla knows what went along with that at Dillon High . . . before she came along. Before he committed to the "whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing" with her. She shakes her head, pushing thoughts of Tim's past extracurricular activities out of her head. He loves her.

And if she's being honest with herself, she's less worried about the possibility of Tim being unfaithful to her than she is the possibility of him simply not being there. He's been her rock. For so long. When her family fell apart, when her father fell apart, when her life crumbled around her. He was by her side. Through it all. The idea of him not being there anymore – not loving her anymore, not protecting her anymore . . . if she's being honest with herself, that's what scares her. The idea of facing life without Tim Riggins by her side scares the hell out of her.

She knows that this is what college is supposed to be about. Getting out of your comfort zone. Figuring out who you are. Where you're going. What you need. What you want. But that doesn't make it any less scary. Lyla desperately wants to believe that she and Tim will be okay. But, if she's being honest with herself – in the quiet of her bedroom, with her suitcases packed for Vanderbilt – she doesn't know.


	2. Chapter 2

College.

_Tim._He taps his pencil against the hard wood of the oversized table. The hum of the light above him is driving him crazy. If they want things quiet in the library, why are the lights so damn loud? He glances around him. Nothing. No one. No one that matters, anyway.

Who are these people that hang out here all the time anyway, studying? People who get good grades, probably, he smiles slightly to himself. That's what Lyla would say, anyway. If she were here. Which she's not. But he knows that she'll be pleased that he's sitting here. Right now. In the library. Waiting for his tutor.

He sighs, slamming shut a textbook and pushing it away. Geology 101. They call it Rocks for Jocks here – hell, they probably call it that everywhere. Even at Vanderbilt. But that's never made much sense to Tim – if you need a tutor to pass the class anyway, it's not much use to a football player. Particularly this football player. Who's required to check in with academic counsel once every two weeks during season to confirm his continuing eligibility. Coach's orders. It's not like Tim's not passing. Of course, there was that one incident last fall with some shitty humanities class (it interfered with happy hour at Jimmy's Tavern on Tuesdays and Thursdays), but Coach fixed that up in time for the A&M game – so no worries.

Of course, now, he grudgingly skips happy hour if it interferes with class. During football season, at least. Coach was pretty angry about that whole humanities thing. So was Lyla. It's amazing how well she can keep track of his grades a thousand miles away. It's like all the negatives of having her here ("are you studying, Tim?") without the positives (waking up to her in the morning is still pretty much the best damn feeling in the world). Tim sighs again. Where the hell is that damn tutor, anyway?

"Dude," Tim hears a voice above him. He looks up. Definitely not his tutor. He grins. "You're not seriously staying here, are you?" the young man standing over him smirks and drops his book bag on the floor. He looks sort of like Tim would look if he walked in on his teammate. At the library.

"Tutoring session," Tim leans back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head.

The young man glances at Tim's book. "What is that – Masterson's class? I'm pretty sure we have the answers to the midterm somewhere in the files," he pulls on his football jacket. Number 76.

Tim shrugs. "If I don't check in with this kid, Coach'll be on my ass again. 'Specially before Oklahoma State."

"If you don't get up right now and come to the House with me, the guys'll be on your ass. 'Specially before Oklahoma State," Number 76 grins at Tim and picks up his book bag again.

The House. The football house. It's a frat house without the fraternity. The San Antonio State Wildcats don't need a fraternity – football is their brotherhood, what ties them together. During 6 a.m. workouts. Midnight beer runs. And during games. Especially during games. When one good block is the difference between a raucous victory party and . . . well, for the football players at San Antonio State, a regular party. Of course, Tim prefers the former, but he's never really minded the latter. He's not showboating for the NFL, unlike some of his teammates.

"If I fuck up this midterm," Tim grins up at Number 76, "my girlfriend will be on my ass. And she's scarier than the guys and Coach combined. Believe me."

Number 76 laughs. "Fine, fine. I can't compete with that."

Tim grins. "Give me an hour. Promise."

"Okay. And bring Brady with you – he's downstairs staring at his calculus book like it's written in Chinese."

Tim laughs. "Maybe I need to send my tutor down there. If he ever shows."

Number 76 shakes his head, grinning. "How the fuck are we supposed to graduate when these professors think we should be doing our own work?" He steps back from Tim's table and heads toward the exit. "See you there – an hour."

Tim nods and turns back to his books. He puts his head in his arms and closes his eyes. College. It actually wouldn't be half bad if the books didn't get in the way.

_Lyla._ She taps a pencil against her desk. Quickly. Nervously. It's the only sound in an otherwise quiet dorm room. She stares down at the textbook in front of her. She's been staring at the same page for 20 minutes now. All the words are blending together.

"I can't even read anymore," she says in frustration. "I seriously can't even read this page."

"It's because you've been reading that damn book for the last three hours," a voice across the room calls out drily. "Actually, probably the last three days."

"I'm screwed," Lyla slams the book shut. "I'm totally screwed." She spins around in her desk chair and looks at her roommate. "I'm screwed," she repeats.

"So stay home this weekend and study," her roommate, stretched out on her bed in front of a laptop, glances over at her.

"I can't. It's Oklahoma State. It's a big deal for Tim. I want to be there," Lyla chews her lip and hops up off of her chair, stretching her arms above her head.

"Why couldn't he have gone to a school in our conference?" Lyla's roommate grins at her before shifting her eyes back to her laptop. The screen glows white against her face.

Lyla cracks a smile. Only slight. "I'm serious, Em."

"I'm serious, too. Think of all the hot guys I'd have easy access to if Tim played football here."

Lyla laughs, shaking her head. "I'm gonna fail," she says.

"Only in some alternate universe where you're not Lyla Garrity," Emily sighs. She shuts her laptop. "Seriously – you're being insane. You've been studying all week. And, if, in the worst case scenario, you get a funny-looking squiggle that's not an A – we call them Bs out here in the real world – that's not the end of your life. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," Lyla reaches into a mini-fridge for a Coke Zero. She silently holds one out to Emily. Emily shakes her head. Lyla pops open the can and settles onto her bed, crossing her legs underneath her and taking a sip from the soda can.

"And you also know that you're not going to lose your shot at that internship in Austin with a B on your transcript, yes?" Emily raises an eyebrow, grinning at her friend.

"Thanks, Em," Lyla grins. "And, while we're in truth-telling land here, you know that Mike isn't actually going to respond to you any sooner, no matter how many times you hit 'refresh,' right?"

"Bitch," Emily grins.

"Whore," Lyla laughs.

"Sorority sisters forever," Emily cackles and throws herself onto her back, pushing the laptop to the side of her bed and kicking her legs up in the air.

"Forever," Lyla laughs. She remembers when they first had to make the pledge to one another – "sisters forever" – a bunch of scared freshmen trying to make their way in a completely foreign place. It seemed so comforting then. Now it just seems . . . silly. It's not going to help her land that internship at the governor's office, that's for sure.

"He's never going to email me back, is he?" Emily finally asks. Quietly.

Lyla's expression grows serious. "I don't know, Em. If he doesn't, he's an asshole, right?" she takes another sip of her soda and deposits the can onto her desk. She hops up and crosses to Emily's bed. "And you're too awesome and smart and, did I mention hot?," she sits down next to Emily and throws an arm around her friend, "to be sitting around waiting for some asshole to email you back. We know that."

"You're right," Emily says. "I know that. I do," she says, with a sudden force in her voice, "I'm – I'm – screw it. I'm totally asking someone else to the formal."

"Good. Great. Yes," Lyla nods. "You should. Absolutely. Screw him."

"Screw him," Emily agrees. "I should – you know who I should ask? Chris Hemming. He's single, right? That would piss Mike off. Royally."

"Chris just started dating some girl on the lacrosse team, I think."

"Seriously?" Emily looks crestfallen. "Because I would totally look great with him. Mike would be –"

"Let's, um, not think about how Mike would be," Lyla says. Gently.

Emily sighs. "You're not even going to this thing. Who's going to be there to support me? What if Mike's there?"

"Mike's not going to be there. It's our formal. No one's going to invite Mike, okay?"

"Wish you were coming."

"Oklahoma State," Lyla replies quietly. Tim's game. Football season is Tim's season. Lyla can't count the number of plane flights she's been on – football games in San Antonio, in Austin, in Houston, in Oklahoma, in Alabama. Between midterms and Tim's football schedule (and Tim's midterms), sorority formals are the last thing on her mind right now. Even if it is her sorority. And her best friend.

Emily looks up at the ceiling. "Mike's really not going to email me back, is he," she says. Half-statement, half-question.

Lyla doesn't reply. Tim would be rolling his eyes right now. At Emily. At Mike. At sorority formals. At worrying about who you're going to take to the sorority formal so your ex-boyfriend sees you there with someone cuter. But, at Vanderbilt, if you're not in a sorority, you don't exist. And Lyla wants to exist. Even if half of her feels like it's a thousand miles away – on a football field in San Antonio. God, she misses him.

"How about Brian Colby?" Lyla finally asks. "He's definitely single and definitely hot."


	3. Chapter 3

Austin.

_Tim_. He drops the last box into the floor in the living room and looks around. It's bigger than he remembers. Maybe because the last time they were here, it was filled with furniture and things – someone else's crap – and now it's . . . empty. Well, not quite empty. Ready to be filled. With our crap, Tim grins to himself.

Buddy Garrity wanders in behind Tim, babbling something about TMU – Tim can't quite make it out, and he's not really listening anyway – because, really, won't I be listening to Buddy Garrity babble on during football weekends and holidays from now until the end of eternity?

Tim heads to the balcony and opens the doors. The humidity of summer covers him like a hot, wet blanket. Not as humid as San Antonio, but still pretty stifling. Tim looks out at the buildings across town; he takes in the noise of the traffic below. New place, new job, new life. That's what growing up is about. Right?

"—if it didn't interfere with Panther football and if y'all were a little closer, you know?" Buddy is still talking as he follows Tim out to the balcony.

Tim looks back at Buddy blankly. "Sorry, sir?"

"The games. Your games," Buddy replies.

"Right," Tim replies. He still has no idea what Buddy is talking about, but doesn't really care. He's exhausted. Packing, loading up a U-Haul, making the drive from San Antonio, and dragging everything up three flights of stairs (no elevator) has taken its toll. And now Lyla's father is here. To _help_. Where is Lyla?

"Don't get me wrong, I like this town, Tim. I like it very much," Buddy leans over the railing and takes in the view.

Tim nods. He doesn't reply.

"I mean, I was a little disappointed when Lyla told me y'all weren't comin' back to Dillon – what daddy wouldn't be? – but I'm proud of my little girl. And of you, Tim. I mean, this job. It's a big deal, son."

"Thanks, Mr. Garrity," Tim takes a deep breath and turns around. He heads back inside and scans the room. Boxes cover the hardwood floors; there's a bed frame leaning against the kitchen island. He's looking for something.

Buddy follows him inside. "I'm gonna miss her, you know?" He stops in front of a full-length mirror – it's been haphazardly deposited in front of a closet. He touches the dusty glass with his finger. "She didn't really discuss this whole . . . move thing with me, yunno? Talked with Pam about the whole thing, yunno, but me . . . ." he trails off, watching Tim, sorting through boxes behind him, in the mirror.

Tim looks at Buddy. He hesitates before responding. This thing – Lyla's desire for independence – it's a delicate topic. He knows it. "We're only four hours away, Mr. Garrity. You'll see her plenty. Just give her some time to settle in," he offers. Gently.

"Right, right," Buddy nods quickly, the spell broken. "Of course. You're right. She just needs some time to settle in." He plasters a smile on his face.

Tim moves some boxes out of his path, eyeing the neat handwritten print – Lyla's, of course – on each box. Bedroom stuff, kitchen stuff, bathroom stuff. Where is that box?

"Y'all are gonna settle in here real nicely," Buddy's forced joviality cuts through the silence. He runs a finger along a dusty table blocking the path to the master bedroom. Bubble wrap hangs off the sides of the table; it's been hastily half-unwrapped amidst several other pieces of furniture scattered across the apartment.

Tim doesn't reply. He has found what he's looking for. He gets down on his knees and starts ripping the tape off of a large box marked "Tim's football stuff." Tim's football stuff. How many years worth of memories are in this box? Tim can hardly believe that it can be reduced to one large brown cardboard box marked "stuff."

Although he'll be reporting for practice in four short weeks, it's not quite the same anymore, is it? He'll be on the wrong side of the field, on the responsible side. The side that's not supposed to show up drunk to practice, that's supposed to keep track of players' grades (Tim finds that part of it particularly amusing), that holds the future of these boys – men, really – in his hands. It feels like yesterday – suiting up, running onto the field, hearing the roars of the crowd, feeling that adrenaline coursing through his veins. It's over in the blink of an eye. And you can't go back.

"It's real nice here," Buddy interrupts Tim's thoughts as he surveys the messy apartment.

"Yeah," Tim mumbles, continuing to rip tape off of the "football stuff" box.

"You and Lyla," Buddy continues absently. "Here together." He pauses, before casting a hard glance at Tim. "Just don't keep my baby girl living in sin for too long, you hear me on this, Tim?"

Tim stops ripping tape off the box, and looks up at Buddy. He is caught off guard, pulled out of the moment. He smiles, holding back a laugh. This man – who has hated Tim for pretty much as long as Tim can remember – is standing here asking him when he's going to marry his daughter. And I am gonna marry his daughter, we agree on that much, at least. "I love Lyla very much, Mr. Garrity," Tim says. "She means everything to me."

"I know that, Tim. And I'm just remindin' you that I expect you to, you know, make it right. You know? I'm expectin' you to take care of her, son. She's my baby girl."

"I understand, Mr. Garrity," Tim looks Buddy squarely in the eye. "And I will. I promise you that." They watch each other for a moment – they have known each other for so many years; they have seen the best and worst in one another, and – in their clashes over Lyla through the years – in themselves. They are family now. They know it.

Tim finally looks back down at his box, and pulls it open. He breaks into a wide smile at the familiar sight. He pulls out an old worn football – one of his old Dillon game balls. New place, new job, new life. New responsibilities. But this football, and the memories that go with it – this will never change. Tim holds the football to his chest and closes his eyes. This will never change.

_Lyla_. She pulls a six-pack of water bottles out of her trunk and leans against her car, blowing some stray wisps of hair out of her face. She's sweaty. She needs a shower. Did we even bring cleaning supplies?, she asks herself as she rests the six-pack of water against her thigh and wipes her face with a hand.

She's exhausted. The drive from Tim's apartment in San Antonio seems like it was a lifetime ago already, but just yesterday evening, she and Tim were sitting on the floor of his emptied-out apartment, eating pizza and drinking beer and trying not to think about the overwhelming changes that lay before them. One last moment of college solitude. And here we are. She's exhilarated and petrified. All at once.

Lyla watches as a young couple walk by her on the sidewalk, deep in conversation. The woman throws her head back and laughs; the man laughs, too. They continue down the street past the brownstone that Lyla rests in front of – my place, Lyla smiles. Our place. She watches as the couple continues down the street until they are out of view.

I love this place, Lyla stands and pulls the six-pack of water close to her chest. I love this place. Lyla smiles as she crosses in front of a mom and a toddler who attempt to navigate the cracks in the sidewalk, much to the toddler's delight. I love this place.

She heads up the steps of the brownstone – she fell in love with it when she and Tim first saw it two months ago – she knew, she just knew that this was it – the neighborhood, the building – she knew it before the realtor even took them up to see the apartment. This was it. Lyla loves the feel of it – the couples, the toddlers, the Starbucks down the street, the bar next to the Starbucks (okay, so Tim likes that); it's so different from her apartment in Nashville, so different from Dillon.

It had taken her all of 30 seconds to convince Tim. His only concern about finding a place had been its distance to TMU, which would directly impact how early he'd have to roll out of bed to make it over to campus for the painfully early Sunday morning coaches' meetings. Easy concession for Lyla, whose job for the governor's chief of staff (thank you, college internship!) would be in the centrally located state capitol building.

I live here, Lyla smiles as she climbs the steps with her water. She fumbles with a key (I have a key!) to her new building and opens the front door. It feels solid. Sturdy. Dependable. She steps inside and looks around. A few newspapers – still wrapped, unclaimed – lie on the floor. She runs a finger over her new mailbox. There's no name on the box yet, just a number. 353. Their new place.

Lyla makes a mental note to talk to the superintendent about adding their names. Riggins-Garrity. Garrity-Riggins? Maybe just Riggins. Am I going to take Tim's name? I mean, when – if – when we get married? Lyla feels her cheeks getting warm. She recalls the high school study halls absently spent doodling "Mrs. Timothy Riggins. Mrs. Lyla Riggins. Lyla Riggins." Don't all girls do that?

Lyla smiles to herself. And here we are. Tim and me. New place, new job, new life. Together. That's what growing up is about. Right?


	4. Chapter 4

Coaching.

_Tim_. He takes a drink from his water bottle and wipes the sweat from his brow. It's fucking hot out. His eyes are focused on a running back as he gets taken down by a defensive end. Before he can say anything, he hears Coach T. explode.

"Seriously, Skolnick? What was that? You missed that block by a mile! He had your back, and you missed it!" Eric Taylor yells.

Tim bites his lip. He motions to Number 42 – the now-shamed running back – and wordlessly and taps another player – "go" – onto the field. Number 42's head hangs low as he ambles toward Tim.

"Watch that, watch that!" Coach Taylor's attention is back on the field.

"We talked about that play seven times, Skol," Tim shakes his head. "You keep hesitating – right there – you keep hesitating," he slams one of his fists into his open hands. "He will be there for you every time – you've just gotta time it right."

"Right, Coach, I know. I screwed up," Number 42 is nodding. "Sorry. I'll get it right."

"Good one," Coach Taylor calls out to a player on the field. "You see that?" he looks at Tim. "We might just win this thing on Saturday," he grins.

"Get back out there," Tim nods his head toward Number 42. "Count on two – remember that. He'll be there for you every time," he calls after him.

"So just what is the over-under on us kicking your alma mater's ass, son?" Coach Taylor winks at Tim as he adjusts his baseball cap.

Tim grins at Coach Taylor before turning his focus back on the field. "Well, since I'm not playing, I think our chances are pretty good."

"Please, if you were still playin', our chances would be better. Hey, Bradley – what are you doin'? Get after him, go!" Coach Taylor's attention is back on the field now.

Tim laughs and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the players.

"Carter, where are you?" Coach Taylor is calling. "Men, are we gonna kick some ass on Saturday or not? I'll tell you something – not if we play like this! Comeon, comeon! Let's go!"

As practice ends, Tim watches the players file by him and the other coaches, slowly ambling off of the field, slapping each other on the backs, laughing with one another, prematurely planning the upcoming weekend's victory party. Tim smiles slightly, viscerally remembering what it meant – what it _means_ – to be a college football player. What that feels like. Like you're the king of the world.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. "– coming?" It's Coach.

"Sorry, what?" Tim looks behind him. Coach Taylor is standing there, with assistant coaches Morgan, O'Connor, and Hawkins; they appear to be waiting for something. An answer, apparently.

"A beer? You, me, Brad, Oakie, Hawk. Dubliner," Coach Taylor says. "We need to go over some route changes – San Antonio has a strong pass-rush – maybe you remember that from your playin' days, old man?" he smiles at Tim. "We have some work to do."

"Yeah, sure," Tim grins.

"Besides," Coach Taylor laughs, "Tami took Gracie to Chicago to see Jules, so I'm livin' a bachelor existence this week. Takin' full advantage of it."

Tim's smile widens as he nods. "Sounds good."

He follows the others – his fellow coaches (feels good to say that, "fellow coaches") – into the field house, stopping briefly to glance back out at the practice field. He loves this place. It's his second home. He has spent his entire life playing football. Living football. Breathing football. Being out here today – every day – it's an honor. One he couldn't have imagined being part of several years ago, when he was just another drunk, aimless high school football player. A vaunted Dillon Panther. Who needs a future when you're king of the present? That was before everything changed. Before Coach T. took him under his wing.

Watching Coach T. on the field every day – learning from him out here – is such a privilege. Tim knows it. When Coach made him that offer – when he agreed to give Tim a shot out here, not as some ex-star player for whom Coach had a soft spot, but as a leader, a teacher – that meant everything to him. When Tim watches Coach beam at a player with pride, or even chew him out, he sees himself out there on that field. All those years ago. Coach pushing him, willing him, driving him to work harder. Get better. Be a better player. A better man. Tim is grateful for those years. He is grateful to be here on this field today. He is grateful to be coaching for a man who invested so much in him. In his future. Who gave him a chance to prove himself when no one believed in him. Who gave a shit when so few others did. He is here today because of that. Because of Coach T. He knows this. He will forever be grateful for it.

_Eric_. He sips a beer as he watches his assistant coaches mapping out counter-strategies for this Saturday's game. He closes his eyes and leans back against his chair. He's exhausted. But it's a good kind of exhausted. A college football game week kind of exhausted – the kind you come to expect after five years of coaching a Division I college football program.

It's not that college football is so different from high school football – not at its core, anyway. It's about a group of boys who want something – who want something so desperately – that they will give up their friends, their girlfriends, their families – day in and day out, week after week, month after month, season after season. It's about being part of a community, finding a place in that community, bringing that community together, every fall. One Saturday at a time. It's a way of life. A pretty damn good one.

Of course, in other ways, college football is a different animal – it's a business, a multi-million dollar business. Eric has never liked that part of college ball, the NFL-training-ground part. But if you care about the kids playing, really care – if you invest in them and raise them up – it matters. Eric knows that. In that sense, football is football, and football – stripped of all the bull shit – is about turning boys into men.

Eric smiles slightly as he watches Tim arguing possible routes with one of the more senior assistant coaches. Watching Tim Riggins become a man – that's a testament to what he loves most about coaching. Eric remembers the drunken screw-up Tim used to be. An incredibly talented drunken screw-up, but a screw-up nonetheless. To watch Tim transform from that high school kid – one who cared little beyond the next rally girl or beer – into a leader of the team, someone the younger players looked up to – that was something special. To watch Tim become a man – to see him graduate from college and enthusiastically rise to the challenges Eric offered (and continues to offer), to watch him transform himself from player to coach – a real coach, and a pretty damn astute one – this is why Eric coaches. He knows that one day Tim will step into his shoes – that he will become the man that lifts young men up on his shoulder and makes them want to achieve. Makes them want to succeed. Eric knows this because this is what he did for Tim. And Jason Street. And Smash Williams. And so many others that Eric will always remember. They made him proud. They _make_ him proud. That Eric has had a hand in this – in Tim's life, in these boys' lives – in turning them into men – _good_ men – that is why Eric loves coaching. And always will.


	5. Chapter 5

Marriage.

_Tim_. He grabs his keys off of the table and hesitates. He looks back at Lyla. She is laughing at something on television, eating ice cream. His eyes drift toward the television set – it's huge, of course, since Buddy Garrity insists on having a proper big screen to watch (and re-watch) highlights of Dillon Panther games. The size of the television lends a strange clarity to the "Curb Your Enthusiasm" rerun that Lyla is watching.

"I'm going," he says.

"Okay," she looks up from the television, a smile still playing on her lips. "Have fun, tell him I say hello. That I miss him."

"Yup," Tim approaches her from behind, leans down over the couch, and plants a kiss on her head. "Sure you don't want to come?"

"Yeah," Lyla leans her head back against the sofa. "It's . . . been a long time. I mean, just – you should see him first, you know? Before . . . to tell him – to ask him. You should ask him. He's your best friend."

"Right," Tim nods, tossing the keys from one hand to another as he comes around to the front of the couch to face Lyla. "I hate leaving you here alone . . . ." he trails off.

Lyla licks her some ice cream off of her spoon and glances sideways at Tim. "I think I'll be able to handle any Panther-related activity in the surrounding area," she says drily.

Tim grins, shaking his head. He doesn't move.

"Seriously," she says, looking back up at him. "Go. I'll be okay, me and my ice cream," she smiles at him. "You're going to be late for dinner." Tim watches her move a hand to her burgeoning belly and pat it. Unconsciously.

This small movement brings a smile to Tim's face. He loves how pregnancy has changed every aspect of Lyla's being, and how it hasn't changed her at all. He loves that Lyla finishes a pint of vanilla ice cream every night, and that she won't share any with Tim ("I'm already sharing with the baby," she reasons). He loves that Lyla still wears his old Dillon Panthers tee shirt to bed every night – the one she took from him when they were high school juniors – even though it now strains to cover her belly (and he loves that, despite his four years as a San Antonio State Wildcat, she remains loyal to the Panthers). He loves that Lyla still insists on walking to her Capitol Hill office every morning, even though the ten minute walk now takes her 30 minutes. And even though Tim offers – every morning – to drop her off on his way to TMU. He loves that Lyla still insists on showing up, at least once a week – candy bar in hand – to watch a football practice (and that seeing her there, in the stands, brings him back to every game in high school and in college when he would restlessly scan the crowd until he found her; he always did). He loves that Lyla insists that pregnancy has Not. Changed. Her. At. All. Even though it has changed everything about her. About them.

"Right," Tim nods. "I'll – my cell will be on if you need me. If you need anything. Okay?"

"I'm fine, Tim," Lyla narrows her eyes. "Go, please. My dad'll be home any minute to hover. I mean, we really should've stayed in a hotel," she continues. "There's just not enough space here – doesn't it feel like this place has gotten smaller since the last time we came home?"

Tim raises an eyebrow, amused. He doesn't reply.

"Shut up," she grins at him. "I'm serious. What was I thinking? Staying with Dad. He's not staying with us after she's born. Don't you dare let him talk you into that on the golf course tomorrow," she warns. "I know how he is – he'll be all, 'Son, don't you think it would be a great idea if I came to stay with y'all for a while after my grandbaby is born?' He'll be finding new ways to ask you every day we're here, plying you with beers. And golf. Maybe a little football talk – 'TMU's lookin' real fine for the BCS this year, Tim; when're they gonna make you head coach?'" she mimics her father. "When I'm out of earshot. For the whole week, mark my words," she wags a finger toward Tim. "He's too crafty to ask me."

Tim laughs. "Okay, first of all, TMU _is_ lookin' pretty good for the BCS this year, and I think I deserve _some_ credit for that," he grins. "Also, I'm pretty sure – given the situation between him and your mom – that he's not gonna want to come stay with us."

"He doesn't know that she's coming to Austin for the delivery. Come to think of it, he probably thinks that _he's_ coming to Austin for the delivery," her eyes widen and her voice rises. "He probably thinks that he's entitled to be in the delivery room."

"Believe me, Garrity, he's not gonna want to be in the delivery room."

"So _you_ say," Lyla says through a mouthful of ice cream. "I'm serious, Tim, do not let him use this week to coerce us into some kind of longterm visit."

"Got it. No longterm visits from your dad."

"Good then," Lyla nods. Resolutely. Like her work here is done.

Tim laughs. He kneels in front of her and takes the bowl of ice cream out of her hands, placing it on the table next to her. He takes her hands into his. "I love you, Garrity."

Lyla smiles at him. To Tim, that smile makes everything worthwhile. Still. He loves this woman. (And she'll always be "Garrity" to him even though, technically, she's been a "Riggins" for some time now.) Tim puts a hand on her belly. "I love you, little lady," he whispers to her belly, as Lyla's hand covers his. His girls. "Also, tell your mom to behave. And to go to bed early."

"And tell your dad to bring home some more ice cream," Lyla whispers to her belly, her eyes sparkling mischievously, as she squeezes Tim's hand. "I think we're running low."

Tim grins up at her, before rising and kissing her cheek. "Will do," he whispers into her ear, before turning to go.

"I love you, too," she calls after him as he heads out the door. "Vanilla would be good. Oh, and some godparents for our baby, please."

_Jason_. "You cut off your hair," he looks up at the young man as he approaches his table.

Tim nods and sits down. "It was gettin' kind of old."

"You mean, you were gettin' kind of old?" Jason Street laughs. It's a somber laugh. Bittersweet. "It's okay, the new 'do."

"Thanks," Tim gives him a slight smile. "Good to see you, Streeter," he leans back in the booth. "How are you?"

"Okay," Jason replies. Automatically. "Good. You?"

"Fine," Tim eyes him curiously. "Haven't seen you in a long time."

"Two years," Jason replies. Slowly. "I know. It's been – things have been – I can't believe it's been two years since I've been home."

"I'm glad you are," Tim says.

Jason hears the genuine warmth in Tim's voice. It makes him uncomfortable – he doesn't know why. It's as if Tim still sees him as someone – someone who he's not anymore. Someone Tim is close to. But Tim doesn't know anything about his life now, does he?

"Is this our old booth?" Jason asks. Suddenly. He looks around. "Seriously, does nothing ever change around here?" his tone takes on an edge. It's the kind of edge that accompanies guys who grew up in a small town and move far, far away, only to return and realize how small this town still is.

"Guess not," Tim shrugs. Tim watches him. He doesn't react to Jason's sudden change in demeanor.

Jason looks down at his hands. He doesn't belong here. Why did he come home? Why did he ask Tim to meet him here? Why does it seem like, after all this time, Tim can still see right through him?

Jason runs a hand through his hair. When he sees the waitress approach, he breaks into a smile. The patented Jason Street charm. He can talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime. The perks of being a sports agent. Having to make small talk with a bunch of assholes. And being able to convince them you care.

"This place. . . ." Jason trails off as he watches their waitress walk away. "I don't know," he smiles, shaking his head.

"Think we can still get free shit for being former Dillon Panthers?"

"State Champions 2006," Jason laughs, raising a water glass.

"Texas forever," Tim grins.

"Think anyone actually remembers us?" Jason asks.

"I don't know," Tim smiles. He pauses. "Do you remember us?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jason snaps. He feels the warmth rise in his cheeks, feels himself getting defensive. Stop it. Who are you right now? It's just Riggs. He's supposed to be your best friend. On your side. Remember?

"I'm sorry," Tim says immediately. "Forget it." He looks down at the table. They sit in silence for a minute.

Finally, Tim speaks again. "How's Noah?"

"Noah's great," Jason's voice reflects a deep love for his son. "He's . . . you should see him – he's a hell-raiser, that kid. He's my life. You know?"

Tim smiles. Jason can see that Tim is hesitant, like he senses something is off. Am I that transparent?

"Kids," Jason says quietly. "You have no clue how much you can love something until . . . He's everything to me . . . ." he trails off.

"It's been so long," Tim says quietly. Then he grins at Jason. "How the hell am I supposed to give that kid my life lessons if I never see him?"

"Yeah, I'm keepin' him far, far away from Tim Riggins' life lessons, thank you very much," Jason laughs. Genuinely. He relaxes slightly. "I'm thinkin' Christmas. I'd like to bring him out here for Christmas if I can."

"That would be great, Six," Tim smiles. "Really great." He pauses. "And how's Erin?" he finally asks. Slowly. Cautiously.

"She's . . . good," Jason replies. "Good. Things are . . . I mean, things are . . . she's not – we're not . . . things aren't great." Jason looks down at the table. The buoyancy he felt a minute ago dissipates.

Jason glances back up at Tim, who's watching him. Tim is silent. Of course. Tim is always silent when it comes to hard emotional truths. He's the kid who never fucking grew up. What was I thinking coming back here?

"We're splitting up," Jason finally says. Flatly.

"I'm sorry, Six," Tim says.

"Right," Jason mutters.

Tim swallows. Hard. "Can I – is there anything I can do . . . .?"

"Yeah Tim," Jason looks up at him. "Sure. Can you find a time machine and explain to my 19-year-old self how to avoid knocking up a 20-year-old waitress I don't know? I mean, seriously, you screwed every woman in Dillon and somehow – miraculously – managed not to get anyone pregnant," he mutters.

Tim doesn't reply. His face reveals nothing.

Jason sighs. "Whatever," he shakes his head. "Look, it's – I'm going through a tough time – I'm – things are hard right now."

"What happened?" Tim asks. Quietly.

Jason looks down at the table. He picks up a fork and runs his fingers over the tongs. "Who knows? Life." He puts down the fork and rubs his face with his hands. "I was thinkin' we should have another kid, and she was thinkin' she should take the one we have and get the hell out of Dodge," he laughs. Bitterly.

"What are you gonna do?"

Jason shrugs. "Leave, I guess. What choice do I have?"

"You could – you could stay and fight. For your kid. For your marriage. You could stay and fight."

Jason stares at Tim. "What would you know about that, Tim? You've never had to fight for anything in your whole life."

Tim looks away. He falls silent.

"We've been goin' to counseling for eight months," Jason mutters. "Eight months already. I think I've stayed and fought the good fight."

"Eight months?" Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah, it's not the sort of thing you put in your Christmas card," Jason smiles. Coldly.

"Right," Tim nods.

They sit in silence for a minute as they watch their waitress approach and deposit their burgers and fries. In return, she gets Jason's winning smile. The public one. The one that doesn't remotely reveal how shitty he feels right now.

"Thanks," Jason tells her sweetly. He watches her walk away, before looking back at Tim. "So," he says brightly – too brightly – "Erin and me? Done. And how's Lyla?"

Tim hesitates. "Okay," he finally says.

"What?" Jason asks.

"What?" Tim asks.

"What are you not telling me?" Jason narrows his eyes.

"Nothin'," Tim mutters, picking up a french fry. "Lyla's fine." He pops it into his mouth.

"And?" Jason asks. "What? Are you two . . . ." he trails off and glances at Tim's left hand. It's still there. A wide flat platinum band on his ring finger. Jason instinctively touches his own ring. Cold. Solid. Tim was his best man. He will never forget that day. Erin on that day. She was glowing. Jason thinks that he probably was, too.

"No," Tim realizes what Jason is asking. "No," he says again. "Not that." He pauses. "We're having a baby," Tim mutters and takes a huge bite out of his burger.

"Lyla's pregnant?" Jason asks. He wasn't expecting that. He doesn't know why. He should have been expecting it. How long have they been married now? How long have they been together? Why does he feel deflated?

"Yeah," Tim nods, setting his burger down onto his plate.

"Congratulations," Jason says. Softly. He doesn't know how to feel right now. Happy? Sad? Joyful? Angry? What kind of a shitty best friend is he right now?

"Congratulations," he says again. More convincingly.

"Thanks," Tim says. "Bad timing," he looks down at his plate.

"Don't say that," Jason says immediately. Harshly. "You're my best friend. You and Lyla . . . ." He hears himself speaking and doesn't recognize his voice. He shakes his head, willing himself to act as Tim had acted all those years ago when he had learned about Jason and Erin. Happy. Jason's not sure he remembers what that feels like. It's been a while.

He tries again. "I'm really happy for you, Riggs. For you and Lyla."

Tim looks up at Jason and nods. "Thanks. I wanted – we wanted to tell you – but when you said you were coming home, I thought . . . ." he trails off. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what I thought. We wanted you and Erin – you, I mean – to be . . . ."

"Godparents," Jason finished for him.

"Right," Tim mutters.

Jason smiles at Tim across the table. This is his best friend. The guy who accompanied him to Mexico when he went off in search for his miracle cure. Escorted him to New Jersey to land his dream job and claim his now-wife. Who pushed him to fight for her, for his kid, for their future. To follow his dreams, even though those dreams ultimately led him to the other side of the country. Which, for Tim Riggins, may as well have been the other side of the world.

Jason swallows. "Are you kidding me, Timmy? I'd be honored." Of course.

Jason sees the relief etched across Tim's face as they look at each other across the table. Many years may have passed, but as Jason watches his best friend across the table, he knows that this booth – this place – isn't the only thing that hasn't changed in the time he's been gone. This friendship, this bond, the history that ties them together – that's forever. That won't change.


End file.
